"What? Wait a second," Alex yelled, slamming it with the flat of his hand.
"Hold on," Vicente said, his hand shooting to his breast pocket. "He's good for it."
These small-time operations could get violent. The gate men were usually paid with the product, and the last thing he needed was a gun pulled on him. He slipped a twenty through the crack between the gate and the post. It disappeared, and then the gate opened.
"Who'd you steal this from?" the gate man asked Alex and then he started in surprise, not expecting Vicente to be standing there. He froze, thinking they were about to get jacked.
"I'm here as a guest," Vicente said, holding up his hands.
Alex nodded and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "He's familia, cabron!"
The gate man grabbed his cap off his head, holding it respectfully in front of his chest. "Señor Sorolla. It's been many years."
Vicente peered into the man's face, trying to remember his name.
"It's Fernando. We worked on the street cars."
"Of course," Vicente said, nodding as he followed Alex.
"This way," Alex said and then they walked the length of the house. Ghostly clouds swept by a pale sliver of moon. He passed a tall narrow window. The shade was pulled down, and he checked for movement inside. A brief glimpse through the crack in the shade revealed an empty room and a closed door.
Here the air was thick with the smell of rotting plants. Vicente had the sudden urge to run out to the tidelands and breathe in the salty marsh. Maybe he'd find those son-of-bitch bootleggers and-
Alex stopped and stomped his foot on the basement door. Light peeked through the cracks. Vicente wished Andy was at his side. But he was back in Los Angeles.
Vicente curled his hands into fists, ready for what waited underneath the house. The door swung up in a wide arc, pushed open by the skinniest boy he'd ever seen. The undersides of his sleeves were dark with sweat.
Alex bent down, placing his hand on the top beam for support as he took the steps down under the house. Vicente nodded to the kid holding the doors open. The kid stared at the ground, patiently waiting for them to go down.
When Vicente touched down on the floor, he had to bend slightly so as not to scrape the top of his head against the beams. Alex turned and held out his arms as if proud of the neighborhood bootlegging operation. Half of his face was lit by the tasseled reading lamp standing by a desk.
The dirt floor was clean and unlike most rotgut operations, it didn't smell of alcohol. Not even a whiff. No one was laid out on the floor. No bottles or barrels in sight. This was a neat and clean operation. The kind Vicente would've run if he'd been small time.
The skinny kid gently lowered the door and then came around to stand behind the desk. He ran his hands down his vest as if preparing to make a speech. Vicente noticed the silver watch chain. "May I help you, señores?"
"We want a bottle," Alex demanded and then looked to Vicente to pay up.
"Of course. That will be twenty five cents."
"Twenty five cents? You used to charge fifteen!"
Vicente held out his arm, keeping Alex on their side of the desk. The kid never blinked.
"With shortages, every business has to keep up," Vicente said. The president was easing the country off Prohibition and made allowances for near-beer and homemade wines, which drove up prices. In a year, little operations like this would dry up trying to keep up with more diversified businesses like Mr. McClemmy's. "We'll take one bottle."
Vicente reached into his pocket. The kid watched his hand as he placed a dollar bill on what had once been a fine desk. The leather blotter was torn and stained. Vicente held the kid's gaze in case he reached for the shotgun under the desk. The kid snatched up the money, his thumb rasping over the crisp paper. He placed it in his pocket and then politely excused himself, walking off into the shadows. Vicente counted the steps, and then a door opened and shut.
Footsteps sounded above, and dust sprinkled down on their heads. These guys were careful. While Vicente didn't like standing here, he admired their set up.
The door opened again, throwing light across the stairs. Vicente saw the plain brown shoes and then brown slacks. The light slid up her legs, and then she stood there, carrying the bottle by its neck. "Hi Vicente," Anna said. "I thought I recognized your voice."
The years had sculpted away her pale, plump face. She'd lost that dreamy, remote air about her, and she stared back at him as if she'd fully expected him to walk dressed to the nines into her basement tonight. Her blue eyes, so different from those of the overdressed, overdone woman he'd left in the church hall, never left his. Vicente swayed on his feet and then remembered to puff out his chest, like a male bird presenting himself for the female to see what she’d missed out on.
She handed the bottle over. "You paid for it. Aren't you going to take it?"
"Gracias Anna," Alex said, reaching for the bottle.
She jerked it out of reach, holding it over her shoulder. "How much did Vicente pay?"
"A dollar," Alex said. "And you didn't give us no change."
She looked ready to bring the bottle down on his brother-in-law's head. "You still owe me four dollars and seventy five cents, and your son needs shoes."
Alex's mouth gaped with indignation.
Anna shifted her gaze back to Vicente, and his skin prickled. She walked by Alex, forcing him to step aside. She handed Vicente the bottle.
"Thank you for your business," she said, her lips twitching as if she were trying not to laugh.
He hardened his stare, but she tucked her hands into her pockets. She wore her hair braided and twisted at the nape of her neck. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled up and the buttons went straight up to her throat.
"You have any other business here?" she asked.
Vicente tucked the bottle under his arm. "Let's go," he ordered Alex.
"But she owes you change!"
She raised one eyebrow, daring Vicente to press the issue.
"How long has he owed you a debt?" Vicente asked.
"A year."
"She hasn't let me in here until tonight," Alex chimed in.
Anna nodded, not deigning to look at Alex. "For your family's own good."
"Who are you to tell me what to do? You're the one breaking the law."
She lifted a shoulder, as if it were no matter. "I only to sell to men who pay."
Remembering her standing with Albert, looking down their noses at him as he lay in the dirt, Vicente barked out a laugh. "Well then, you haven't changed since I left."
He didn't bother to wait for her reaction as he turned and walked towards the double doors. The young man pushed them open. Albert was probably upstairs counting the till while her parents lived in their respectable, lace-curtained house.
"Good night, Vicente," Anna said behind him. "You sure you don't want a bottle for your lady friend?"
Vicente took the steps two at a time and never looked back as she laughed.
Chapter Eighteen
"There's someone here to see you."
Dori startled at Gavin's voice. She had just been looking on World Market's website for curtains to hang in the east-facing windows set above the built in cabinets in the pantry.
"Who is it?"
He shrugged. "I didn't ask. She's got dreads and-" He shook his head as if he didn't have the words to describe the rest of Meg.
Dori smiled as she stood up from her chair. "Thanks. I didn't know you'd be here today."
"I just came to check in on the crew this morning. Everything's okay with you?"
"Yeah."
Gavin surveyed the home office she'd set up in the small room off the kitchen. "You got a nice set up here."
Dori couldn't stop the smile from reaching her face. The chestnut cabinets gleamed from her polishing. She'd cleaned the drawers and shelves and then lined them with clear rubber matting. A rug she'd rescued from her storage unit lay on the floor.
"Thanks." She almost told
him about her plans to display her milk glass collection in the glass-fronted cabinets, but Gavin stepped out of her tidy sanctuary.
Dori smiled when she found Meg studying the chimney's herringbone pattern of bricks.
"Hey you," Dori called out.
Meg straightened from the chimney, wiping the tip of her nose. "So I heard you were asking around town about me."
"You did?" The morning was bright and chilly. When Dori hugged Meg, she realized she hadn't had any human contact this whole weekend. She'd fallen asleep at the table the night Vicente told her his story and apparently she'd offended him because he'd been quiet these past two days. She could hardly believe it but she actually missed him and his stories.
"Richard from the cemetery called."
Dori only blinked. "So what did he say?"
"Oh, that you were looking for someone who died in the 1930s and you punched out a woman."
"You did?" Gavin asked, startling her a second time this morning. She thought he'd gone down into the basement.
Caught between them, Dori bit her lip and then said, "Yeah, she threatened my grammy and so I-"
Meg removed her giant sunglasses, her eyes wide with delight. "You really punched a woman at the cemetery?"
Dori cleared her throat. "It got a little uh-" She almost said rough and instead rubbed the tip of her cold, numb nose. "They had to call an ambulance."
"I wish I'd been there to see it," Gavin said.
"Me, too," Meg purred. Dori looked at her, noting the sudden deepening of her voice.
She stepped forward, offering her hand to Gavin. "I'm Meg."
"Gavin." Staring into each other's eyes, they shook hands.
"Gavin is working on the foundation," Dori said. They let go, and her breath caught in her throat.
"And the staircase and your roof," Gavin added.
"Very nice," Meg said, and from the way she said it, Dori wasn't so sure she was talking about the house.
"I'll leave you ladies to it."
Meg sighed as he walked into the house. "So you have the day off?" Dori asked.
"I do, and I brought this." Meg held up a professional camera. "I hope you don't mind, but I'd love to snap a few photos."
Of Gavin or the house, Dori almost asked. "Don't mind at all," she said, and they walked into the kitchen.
"By the way, Richard said he hoped you'd come back. He's never had a more exciting day at work than that. But before you get any ideas, he's married. To a man."
"Right." Dori wiped her hands on the front of her jeans. "Thanks for the heads up."
"I was hoping you'd be free for a lunch so I can tell you I've found no trace of your Anna Vazquez."
In her mind's eye, Dori saw Vicente in Anna's basement, buying a twenty-five cent bottle of liquor. She cleared her throat. "I have a lead."
"You do? Oh right. She may have had a lover in your house."
"Uh, yeah. Anyway, I heard a story that she may have run around with a bootlegger who lived at The US Grant Hotel."
"I know the perfect person you can talk to. He's an expert on the history of that hotel. Hold this." Dori took the camera while Meg dug out her phone.
"Who don't you know?" Dori asked.
"Your contractor for one," she said slyly. "Is he only your contractor?"
"Yes," Dori said before he walked in and heard them.
"Taken? Gay?"
Thinking of the night Gavin had kissed her under the streetlight, Dori cleared her throat. "Neither. So who's this guy you're hooking me up with?"
Dori parked at Horton Plaza and bought coffees so she could validate her parking ticket.
"Now let me do the talking," Meg said as they walked past the Jessop's clock towards Broadway. Dori couldn't help but glance back at the alcove where she'd once made out with a sailor. She dug her hands deeper in her jacket pockets.
"He comes off as a bit stuffy, but truly, he's a sweetheart. His grandfather was the maître d' at the El Cortez."
Meg had briefed the historian over the phone while Dori drove them downtown. She gave over Vicente's name and the month and year he'd been in San Diego. Meg never asked how she knew his name and Dori didn’t elaborate.
"I let him know what we're looking for. If there's any trace of Anna's suitor, he'll find them. Or would she have been his moll?"
Dori was at a loss to explain. Neither suitor nor moll described Vicente and Anna. "They were friends as kids, but after that I'm not sure."
"Lovers, then."
"Yeah."
"Such an old-fashioned word. Have you ever had a man who qualifies as a lover?"
"Almost."
"Well? What happened?"
She thought of her last encounter with Pete at the Hotel Del. She'd kissed him knowing his fiancée was in the ballroom downstairs and then turned her back on him forever. "Everything became a competition, and he couldn't keep up."
"Like up?" Meg pointed her finger in the air with a knowing wink. "Or, he feared you were better than him?"
"He thought that I thought I was better than him." Dori shook her head as they walked around the bronze doomed-fountain.
"I'm sorry about that."
Dori wished she hadn't answered the question quite so honestly. Thinking of Pete always depressed her.
She lifted her chin, looking down Broadway where it ended at the bay. A red trolley crossed the thoroughfare and pulled into the station across from the Santa Fe Depot.
"I'm so glad you invited me," Meg said. "I love field work, but I usually do it alone for my clients. This is more like a mystery."
"What clients?"
"I do a bit of freelance genealogy. I have to do something with my history degree." They crossed Broadway to The US Grant. The four flags over the main entrance hung limp. As they approached, thoughts of mobster movies played in Dori's head.
When she stepped under the twinkling chandeliers and smelled the perfumed air, she imagined Vicente striding across the checkered marble floors in a suit and fedora. She gazed up at the Corinthian columns, imagining flappers like Clara in beaded gowns drinking illegal highballs on the upper mezzanine which was bordered by an Art Deco brass railing.
While Meg announced their arrival with the concierge, Dori wandered over to the historic photos of Downtown San Diego. She lingered in front of one with horses and carriages parked along the thoroughfare they had crossed a few moments ago. Excitement percolated as she thought how close she was to finding more tangible evidence of Vicente. It would be huge, almost unbelievable that the guy she was talking to in her house had been, well, a real person.
She went from photo to photo until she came to the last of a man and woman posed before a tall window and a potted palm tree. Dori almost walked back towards Meg until she looked into the man's face.
He was dressed in a three-piece suit, smiling at the camera like he was your friendly general store owner. His curly hair shone with pomade and a watch chain stretched across his stomach. A stout matron frowned at his side, clutching a substantial leather purse under one arm. He was the man in her dream who'd sent Vicente to his death.
A brass plate was nailed to the frame. It read: James and Muriel McClemmy. Vicente had mentioned his boss' name plenty of times; always as Mr. McClemmy. But as she stared into those pale blue eyes from her dream – but were white in the old photo - she'd know this man anywhere.
Dori examined the background. A potted palm tree and table were behind them. Just beyond Muriel she saw a man's hand resting on the edge of the table. She inched closer, her nose nearly bumping the glass. The hand was tanned against the crisp white cuff and he wore an Elgin watch.
Recognition surged through her and she placed her finger on the image. Deep down, she knew it was Vicente.
Her face flushed and her stomach tightened with anger at what James McClemmy had done to Vicente. Had he lived to be an old man? Had he ever wondered about the man who died for him, who left behind his family and the woman he'd loved?
"There she
is."
Dori's heart kicked and she turned at the loud voice behind her. Meg embraced an impeccably dressed man. They kissed each other's cheeks, and Dori hoped she wouldn't be expected to the do the same.
As Meg and the man chatted, they held each other's hands. Meg momentarily forgot about Dori as they discussed a historical walking tour that was happening this weekend. She edged forward until she joined their group.
"Oh Dori, this is David Mumper who hides all the juicy secrets of this hotel," Meg said.
He looked from Dori's face to her hand and back, his warm smile fading. Dori wondered if she'd arrested him. He didn't look familiar, so she made herself smile. "Thanks for seeing us today."
"Oh my God," he said, backing away. "I'm sorry Meg, I can't- I have to-"
"David? What's wrong?" Meg turned to Dori. "Give me a minute. I'll be right back."
She followed him and he held up his hands as if protecting himself. Dori started towards them to help.
"Why don't you sit down?" Dori offered, pointing to a velvet sofa.
"I shouldn't be talking to you," he said.
Meg shushed him, leading him to the sofa.
Dread sprouted in the pit of Dori's stomach. "I can go get you something to drink," she said.
"Yes, why don't you do that," Meg said, giving her an apologetic look.
She escaped in search of a gift shop. She found it on the other side of the hotel, bought some waters and then hurried back. Through the potted palm fronds, she saw David with his arm over Meg's shoulder. In some strange reversal, he seemed to be comforting her. Dori took a deep breath and then stepped onto the square of rug.
"Here, I found these," Dori said.
David took a deep breath. Meg looked up at her and then cleared her throat. "Dori, I don't know how to-"
Neither took a water bottle from her.
Dori sank into the chair next to the sofa. "Just take your time."
He passed a glance at Meg. "I can't help you. My cousin was Kaylee Matthews."
All the air left her body and the plastic bottle crunched in her grip.
"I'm sorry, Dori," Meg said. "I had no idea and I- Well I've put all of us in such a position that I-"
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